Monthly Archives: October 2018

Best of Boston, Pop Culture, Writers and Writing

Honoring Jack

The following is a re-post from October 2017.

Pumpkins, large and small, adorn nearly every window box and doorstep in my neighborhood.  Along with the usual ghosts and witches, we here in the Bay State have easy access to the ultimate Halloween spectacle.  Salem may be a quaint New England town steeped in history, mythology, and magic – but Salem in October is way too touristy for me.

Instead, I take a day trip to Lowell to visit the grave of one of my literary heroes – Jack Kerouac.

The first time I visited Kerouac’s grave, it was just before Halloween, and the anniversary of his death.  I arrived at Edson Cemetery with a crudely drawn map that a kindly gentleman at the Chamber of Commerce had given me and, as I made my way along the neat little rows of tombstones and markers, I marveled at the extraordinary shades of yellow, orange, and red leaves underfoot and overhead.  Kerouac’s grave was an unassuming flat slab that was flush to the ground.  This is what it said:

“TI JEAN”

JOHN L. KEROUAC

MAR. 12, 1922 – OCT. 21, 1969

– HE HONORED LIFE –

STELLA HIS WIFE

NOV. 11, 1918 – FEB. 10, 1990

There had been many recent visitors to the grave, fans, and writers perhaps, because they’d left unopened bottles of imported beer, packs of Camel cigarettes, flowers, and sheets of poetry, some handwritten and some typed, in several different languages.

I sat on the ground and took out a bottle of champagne and my worn paperback copy of On the Road.  I purposely shook the bottle so that when I popped the cork, the bubbly came gushing out just like it does in the winning team’s locker room.  I took a small drink before pouring the entire bottle onto the grass, letting it soak right into the ground so he could enjoy it.

Then I opened my book to a random page and started reading.  There in that graveyard was all the history, mythology, and magic I needed.

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Inked

The following is a re-post from October 2016.

When I was a kid, it seemed like the only people with tattoos were guys who’d been in the military or who rode motorcycles.  Getting tattooed is painful and it proved these guys were strong, tough, cool.  In other words – badass.

Once in a great while, I’d see a woman with a tattoo but it was usually a dainty little red rose on her ankle or shoulder.  Still, I never considered doing it myself.  For one thing, I didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to have it branded into my skin.  Then there was the pain factor.   And a badass?  Definitely not me.

But getting tattooed has become so commonplace that it hardly seems the act of courage or rebellion it once was.  These days, it’s more about artistic expression and individualism. That being said, getting tattooed remains a painful endeavor and, you have to be gutsy to let that needle go at your skin.

Full disclosure here: I got inked.

Like far too many women, first I was cut.  Next, pumped full of poison.  Then came the tatts, and finally they nuked me.  I guess that makes me a badass after all.

You see, my tatts are radiation markers.  I am a breast cancer survivor with four small permanent black dots on my chest.  But I’m also a hockey enthusiast, a devoted Boston Bruins fan, so I choose to think of my tatts as small hockey pucks.  Four little pucks in honor of the greatest hockey player that ever was: Number Four – Bobby Orr!

It’s October.  Hockey season started last week and my Bruins are back on the ice.  It’s also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Have you scheduled your mammogram?

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